From the Shadow of the Forest
by Maiden of the Forests
Summary: For as long as she can remember, Ara has lived in the forest of Mirkwood, tending to her aging father, only seeing the world outside in glimpses and steps. But one day, everything changes when she finds herself in the home of a mysterious skin-changer. Beorn/OC.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:**_ _The idea for this story came last year when I was rereading LOTR and I noticed that someone mentioned Beorn's_ children. _I thought about that for a minute, and realized that that meant he must have had a wife. And so this story happened. I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

Along the dark borders of Mirkwood forest, a small girl moved.

She held a basket on her arm, and she glanced back into the trees as she went, her feet making very little sound in the underbrush. She turned back, and the sun struck her full in the face.

She stepped forward, grinning. Surely the world outside the wood couldn't be more dangerous than the world inside, with its threat of spiders and confusion! Not with this gloriously warm sun on her face, and the soft grass beneath her feet! She dropped to the ground and slipped her shoes and socks off, leaving them sitting in the shadow of the trees.

She took another step forward, and was fully out of the shadow of the forest. A great field spread out before her and she had the sudden urge to run. She dropped her basket with a giggle and took off across the grass, her skirt, dirty and torn, whipping about her ankles. She spun around and dropped to the ground, laughing so hard that tears spilled down her cheeks. _Now_ she could go back and tell her father that the outside wasn't so bad!

She stood and dusted herself off with a sigh. She supposed she should gather the herbs that she had been sent for now, or her father might never let her go alone again. The sun shone on her back as she turned to the dark, old wood again, and she just stood there, enjoying the feel of the grass on her feet for a moment longer. She could never go barefoot in the wood. One never knew what strange creatures may lurk in the underbrush, or what thorns may lie in wait along the path.

A strange sound rolled across the field behind her, and she whirled around, her basket clutched tightly in her hand. A shadow moved near the edge of a small copse, its head raised in a roar. She stood, rooted to the spot.

It was the form of a great bear.

Her eyes wide, she watched as it stalked across the waving grasses and disappeared back into the trees. It emerged again and paced back across the field, its head low, growling.

It was a bear! A real bear!

Oh, this was truly an adventure!

It disappeared into the shadows again, and she just stood there for a moment, waiting anxiously for it to reappear. The minutes passed, and finally she turned back to the wood with a sigh.

A shadow moved behind her and she whipped around again. The form of a great, tall man strode out of the trees and away across the fields. Her mouth dropped open and she hugged the basket to her chest.

And then she was running.

She careened back into the wood and through the through the trees, the cool air tearing at her lungs. The basket swayed on her arm and smacked her in the side over and over, but she couldn't care less. She had seen a skin-changer! A real, actual skin-changer! Oh, what would her father say to _this_?

She skidded to a stop in front of the little cottage, wrenched open the door and fell inside.

"Father, father!" she cried, but there was no answer. She looked around, and saw a note sitting on her father's desk. She approached it, and a figure appeared in the doorway.

"Father!" she cried, and ran into his arms. He lifted her from the ground and swung her in a circle, setting her down with a chuckle.

"Now," he said, his eyes twinkling. "I suppose I am to assume that you have only just arrived back from your little herb-gathering expedition." He glanced at the door. "For I know my little Ara would never be so imprudent as to simply leave the door sitting open, unprotected."

She nodded solemnly. "Yes, father," she said.

"And what herbs did you gather?"

She glanced at the basket, still empty. "Um."

He looked down.

"And where are your shoes?"

* * *

"Father?" The flickering of the fire filled the darkening room and Ara sat by the flames, her feet hanging off the edge of a stool.

Shadows danced across her father's face as he bent over his desk, writing. "Yes, my dear? What is it?"

"Have you ever seen a skin-changer?"

"Skin-changer?" He lifted his head from his work and set his pen down on the table with a clunk. "They don't exist. Not anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that they were killed years ago—all of them. Why do you ask?"

"I—" She looked at his haggard face, and his hand, sadly touching the pen that had been her mother's. "I was just wondering."

"Very well." He turned, and shadows hid his face again. "You may return to your wondering."

* * *

It was well Ara had another pair of shoes. They were old, dirty, and worn out from years of trekking through the wood, but at least they fit. Somewhat.

Her father wouldn't let her venture back out the get her shoes—not in the dark of night. And she knew well enough not to ask him to get them himself, for he hadn't approached the edge of the wood since before she could remember. And so she was forced to wear her old ones that night.

But she knew where she was going the next morning. The minute the sun, or what could be seen of it in the wood, peeked its face in the window, she was out of bed and running into the kitchen, slipping on her dress and her old shoes as she went.

"I'll gather herbs today, father," she said, bouncing on her toes and grinning up at him.

"I wasn't aware of the fact that we needed them," he said, and she thought she saw just a hint of a smile around the corners of his lips. "I was certain that yesterday's errand would have supplied us enough for a week, considering how long you were gone." He spoke the words in a teasing manner, but Ara looked away, feeling a tinge of guilt. She knew he worried about her.

"I—" She looked at her feet, feeling a flush creeping up her cheeks. "Well—"

He set a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You want to get your new shoes back," he said.

She looked up at him with a smile. "Yes," she said. "And I forgot the herbs, anyway."

He handed her the basket. "Well, go on," he said, giving her a teasing push toward the door. "I'll have breakfast when you return."

She stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, father!" she cried, and she was out the door in a flash.

She ran through the wood, her feet crunching on the leaves and her basket swinging wildly. She must have made a terrible noise, but just now she didn't care. She burst out into the bright morning sunlight, looking down, and grinned. There were her shoes and socks, sitting just where she had left them the night before. She picked them up and plopped them in her basket, and stepped fully out of the shadow of the wood. She looked out over the field and saw nothing.

Setting her basket beside her, she sat down. How long did she dare wait? Her stomach growled and she put a hand over it as if to silence it. Surely the bear would appear again today!

The sun moved farther up into the sky, and the last vestiges of sunrise were burned away. Ara glanced back at the wood. Her father would be worried about her, she knew. She looked one last time out over the field, and into the grove of trees.

No presence graced her field of vision, and there was no movement but the waving of grasses in the wind.

With a sigh, she turned, and walked back into the forest.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note:**_ _I hope everyone has a very merry Christmas! Have a dark chapter with some violence to get you in the mood for the season. Lol._

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Through the darkness of Mirkwood forest, a young woman walked.

She was no longer the small girl of yesteryear, but she still held a basket on her arm. Her shoes remained firmly on her feet now, and she hadn't run giggling through the grass outside the wood for years. She stepped up to the door of the cottage and stopped, just looking around her for a moment.

Where houses had once stood, now were ruins, encroached on and forced into decay by the wood. Only a brave few remained here now, making their hard life hunting and gathering within the borders of Mirkwood.

She shook her head to clear it of the dark thoughts that invaded it, and opened the door. "I'm home, father," she called.

Her father stood from his chair, his back bent and his face shadowed, and limped over to her. "I'm glad I have you, Ara," he said softly, taking the basket from her with shaking hands. "Come, sit."

"It's you who needs to sit, father." Her arm through his, she helped him gently to his chair. The firelight flickered on his face, and shone in his eyes. How old her father had grown lately—old beyond his years. His beard was white now, and his face was drawn and haggard, scored with deep wrinkles.

 _It's this forest._

She pulled a chair to the fireplace beside him and sat, putting a gentle hand on his arm. "Father."

He blinked and looked up at her. "Yes?"

"I've been thinking, father. I've been wondering…" She stood, and began to pace the small room. "There are many places to live outside the wood. In the valley. There is green grass there, and sunlight. And people…"

He gave a quick shake of his head. "Your mother died here," he said, "and I mean to die here as well."

She swallowed, and forced the words out. "And that might be soon." She bit her lip. Those were hard words—but she knew they were true. "Father, this wood—it's draining you. I know it's been years since the battle—I know the spiders are gone now—I know that nary a strange creature shows its head now. But there's a shadow still lingering here—I can feel it, father, and I think you can too. You could live so long—" She cut herself off, forcing back unwelcome tears. "If you would just _consider_ it." The tears came through in her voice and she looked away, clenching her fists. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm sorry, father. I know you've made up your mind. It's only…"

He laid a shaking hand on hers. "I'm staying here," he said gently. "But Ara…I've been thinking."

She managed a mischievous smile. "I know. What else would you do with all your spare time?"

"No—I've been thinking about you. You're not happy here, are you?"

"Not happy?" She looked away and gave a slight shake of her head. "I'm perfectly happy as long as you are."

He chuckled. "I can see through your little compassionate shield, my dear. I've seen how many times you've wandered to the edge of the wood, just to see the sky…"

"I go out there only to gather herbs!" she cried. "I promise."

She thought she saw tears glistening in his eyes. "No, no, my dear!" he cried. "I'm not blaming you. I was only saying that I think it's time you found yourself a husband."

She just stared at him for a moment, then began to laugh. "And what men are there around Mirkwood for me to make a husband of?" she said. "No, father, I'm perfectly happy here. And you know I could never leave you."

He nodded sagely. "Ah well, there will come a time when you won't mean that." He patted her hand. "And I'll be very happy for you." He looked around. "Now, where's that concoction of yours that always makes me feel so much better?"

"I don't have all I need," she said, standing. She picked up the basket from the table and started toward the door. "I will return in a moment." She took one last look back at her father, sitting there, his eyes closed and his hands folded in his lap, and stepped out the door.

 _I know how many times you've wandered to the edge of the wood, just to see the sky…_ her feet pattered along through the leaves and now, she took no care to be quiet. The only evil here now was that strange shadow, that intangible thing that sucked the life out of her father. Spiders, orcs, or other dark creatures of the wood hadn't been seen here in years.

The forest grew brighter as she approached the edge, the sunlight filtering through the trees and falling in golden pools in the underbrush. She emerged from under the trees and felt the warm sun on her face.

Suddenly she was tempted to take off her shoes again.

With a smile, she dropped to her knees. The herbs that grew on the edge of the wood were more wholesome that those that grew within, untainted by the darkness that stained the inside, and her father needed something more today. As she reached to pick a leaf, she heard a snarl.

Her head snapped upright and she jumped to her feet. The basket fell to the ground with a thump. The sound of labored breathing came from behind her. She took a step forward, away from it. Her hand went to the knife at her side. She drew it slowly from its sheath and turned.

Her fingers trembled on the dagger, but clutched it tight.

She stared into the face of a snarling orc, its deformed hands clutching a twisted knife and its eyes dripping hatred. Saliva flew from its teeth as it lunged, the knife aimed for her heart.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note:**_ _Gaaah, sorry about the sporadic update schedule! Now that Christmas is past (present? Future? Sorrynotsorry XD) I should be able to update more regularly. :)_

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

She stumbled backward, thrown by the sudden and forceful attack. She plunged her knife forward aiming for the general direction of the heart but the orc snatched at her wrist and twisted it. Pain shot up her arm and she pulled free, lunging forward and aiming a kick at the orc's groin.

It doubled over and hissed, spewing spit. She held her knife in front of it, its point aimed at the orc's head. "Get away from me," she said with all the sharpness she could muster, and her voice trembled a bit. "Get away. Now."

It sneered up at her. "What're you gonna do?" it snarled. "Stab me with your metal shaving?"

"This metal shaving," she softly, fiercely, "was made by the most skilled craftsman in our village, and believe me, you will regret it if I so much as _touch_ you with it." She edged backward, the knife held tightly in her trembling hand. "Now leave." She lowered the knife so it almost touched the orc's arm. "Get out."

It backed away, shaking and slathering. "Don't hurt me, warrior woman!" it squeaked in its ugly, rasping voice. "Don't hurt me!"

She followed it, keeping the knife just inches away from its flesh. "I won't if you go," she said.

It turned and ran.

Straight into the wood.

Her eyes widened and she dashed forward, skidding in front of it before it entered the shadow of the trees. Her father was in there! It grasped at her skirt and tugged. Her knife shot forward as she fell, plunging deep into its arm.

It screamed and lunged at her, its fingers held as claws aimed for her face. She rolled backward and jumped to her feet just as it landed on her, knocking her to the ground again. Her head hit the grass with a thump and for a moment, everything slowed.

She felt the bite of the orc's sharp nails in her arm, and the weight of it pressing on her chest. She stared into its hate filled eyes as it clutched her knife in one hand and its own twisted one in the other. She felt its sticky saliva drip onto her throat as it raised the knife and plunged it downward.

And her hand shot forward and grabbed its wrist, twisting it until it screamed and dropped its knife. With the other hand she snatched the knife and plunged it deep into the orc's head. It screeched, and its head wobbled back and forth as it fell. On shaking legs, it drew itself up stumbled forward, grabbing at her, its teeth sinking deep into her arm.

A roar split the air behind her, and the orc let go, shaking. It fell backward, stumbled over its own feet, and ran a few steps before collapsing to the ground face first, black blood dripping from the wound in its head. Ara just stood there for a moment, holding the stained knife in front of her, staring at the dead orc.

And then she turned to see the owner of the roar.

A giant bear stood some distance away, its form stark against the sky on a small rise. The knife fell to the ground and she stood staring, forgetting for a moment everything that had happened. The bear sank down into the form of a tall man, who stood silhouetted, the sun at his back. Her mouth dropped open and her hands hung motionless at her side. It was him! It was really him, the skin-changer she had seen all those years ago!

And then she was running, waving and stumbling over her own feet. "Sir!" she cried, and her voice echoed out over the fields as she ran. "Sir! Thank you!" He turned his head, and she thought she saw his eye rest on her for a moment. And then he was gone, disappearing over the crest of the hill. She skidded to a stop and stared at the empty hilltop for a moment before turning away.

She walked slowly back to where the orc lay, her head pounding and her feet unsure. Dizziness spread over her as she looked at it laying there, dead and bleeding, and her arm began to throb. The bite marks were deep, and the blood that dripped from them mingled with black orc blood and dirty stains from its teeth. She shuddered and sat down suddenly on the ground, putting her head between her knees.

When the churning in her stomach had subsided, she stood cautiously and leaned against a nearby tree, looking around for something to bandage her wound with. After a moment she tore a long strip off of her skirt and quickly bound her arm, wincing as the fabric touched the deep punctures.

She approached the orc slowly, trying not to look too closely as she pulled her dagger from its fingers and wiped it clean on the grass. She slipped it into its sheath turned away from the dead orc with a shiver.

Her arm throbbed as she bent to gather herbs.

* * *

"What happened to your arm, Ara?" Her father sat with his head resting on his hand, staring into the fire. "Did you injure yourself?"

"It's nothing." She kept her face carefully turned away from his as she spoke. "Just a scratch. It will heal quickly, I'm certain."

He turned his face to her, his eyes sharp and keen. She drew back. "And how did you get it? The scratch?"

"Really, it's—it's nothing." If her father knew orcs wandered on the edge of the woods, she would have no chance of convincing him to leave—and he would worry every time she left his sight. "It was an accident."

"Ah." He nodded, but she knew as he turned away again, resting his head back in his hand, that he knew her too well to believe her. "Just…take care of yourself, Ara." His voice was soft, and tired, and she thought she caught a hint of wistful sadness in it.

She wondered if he thought of her mother.

She nodded with a little smile. "I'll try," she said, and her voice faded away into silence. For a moment, no one spoke, and the crackling of the fire filled the little cabin.

She smiled again, and broke the silence, her voice barely containing her excitement. "I saw a bear today, father. Out on the edge of the wood."

"Did you?" A shadow passed over his face. "So many strange creatures roam those lands now. I worry."

She shook her head hastily. "No, father, it wasn't—" She stopped. How did she know it wasn't dangerous? How did she know this strange bear-man wouldn't tear _her_ to pieces if he had the chance? "It wasn't anything," she finished softly. "Truly."

"Good." He patted her on the hand and she drew back from the stinging pain that shot up her arm at the gesture. "Just—take care of yourself, that's all I ask."

She sighed and stared into the fire.

* * *

Ara sat in the almost-darkness of the small cabin, lit only by the last coals of the evening's fire. Pain shot up her arm and down her hand as she pressed the herbal salve to the wound and rewrapped the stained bandage as tightly as she could stand. The bite marks had grown redder and her arm more swollen over the last few days, and she knew that a bite from an orc could quickly turn deadly. If this orc was simply a lone renegade, one of the few left from the battle many long years ago, and carrying with it nothing worse than dirt and parasites, then her simple herbal cures would serve to keep infection at bay. If the wound contained something more, some dark poison…

She shook her head and refused to think about that possibility. What would her father do without her?

And so the days passed in a haze of carefully guarded pain. The sharp, stabbing pangs faded to a dull ache, and the dull ache spread over her whole body, and into her mind. She went about her daily business in a fog of work and distraction, dreading the moment when she would lay down at night with nothing to think about but the ache, and the terrible slowness of passing time. Her mind slowed to a crawl, and she couldn't seem to remember the last time she had felt truly alive.

The sun was setting as she pushed open the door to the cottage one day, and called to her father sitting inside. Setting the basket on the counter with a clumsy thump, she made her way with sluggish steps to her place by the fire.

Her father watched her as she sat, and she drew back from those keen eyes, so watchful in that old face.

"You've been restless lately, my dear," he said. "Don't think I haven't heard you pattering about the room at night."

"I haven't been able to sleep, father."

"What's wrong?" He smiled slightly, his eyes crinkling at the edges and sparkling mischievously. "You haven't met anyone—any nice young man lately, have you?"

She managed a small smile. "No, father," she said, and her voice was softer than she meant it to be. "It's nothing like that." She turned her tired eyes to the fire and watched as the flames danced over the wood, her father's words settling into her mind and running over and over in an endless, meaningless loop.

"You look pale this evening," he said after a while.

"It's just the evening light."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, I am." She rested her chin in her hands and felt something like flaming heat spread up her arm and through her body. "I'm fine, father. I truly am. Don't worry about me." She sighed. "I'm sure I'm just tired."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note**_ _: Aaah, sorry for the super short chapter! The next one's longer, I promise! XP_

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

Through the darkness of the wood, a young woman walked.

Her movements were slow, and her steps clumsy. A basket hung limply on her arm, empty, for she walked toward the sunlight once again.

The darkness surrounded her, and swirled around her as she moved, watching her with its shadowy eyes. From every side, little lights peered out of the bushes at her, the noises of the forest seemed suddenly loud, so very loud.

There weren't usually this many creatures in the wood. They had gone away years ago! Hadn't they? Most of them had, she knew they had! She shook her head and pressed her fingers to her temples. When she closed her eyes her ears rang, and she swayed on her feet.

 _It's got a little infected, that's all,_ she told herself, slowing her steps to keep steady. _I've got a fever. It'll go away._

She thought she heard the sounds of a scuffle behind her, and turned to see a shadow move, just at the edge of her vision. Her footsteps seemed loud, too loud. She stopped.

Everything was silent.

She stepped forward again, and the leaves crunched loudly in her ears, the sound exploding like the crackle of fireworks. She had seen fireworks once. When she was very young. One of the old men in the village had made a few and set them off just outside the wood. They had exploded into a cloud of colors and sparks.

She saw it now, the rainbow of colors in front of her eyes as if she was standing in her very memory. She reached for the trunk of a nearby tree to steady herself, and fell to the side as the tree faded away into a burst of color. She blinked and rubbed her temples again.

She should be reaching the edge of the wood by now. She looked up to see a dark mass of twisted branches above her. Not a hint of sunlight penetrated here. Off on the edge of her vision she thought she saw a river, winding its way through the trees…

Which way was the cottage? She closed her eyes and carefully tested a nearby tree before leaning against it. Cottage…the ruins of old houses, disappearing into the wood… _her father._ She wanted to scream, to force away the terrible fog that had settled over her. She had stepped out the door as usual. She had headed down the familiar path…

Suddenly she was running, without knowing how she started. She careened through the woods, crashing through the underbrush, colors exploding in her eyes and fireworks in her ears with every step. The trees spiraled and twisted into the dark sky above her, and she ran through clouds and fog, pushing through them as if they were a tangible thing. It was this wood! The evil wasn't all gone! That shadow, the one she had felt sucking the life out of her father…

 _I must reach the edge! I must see the sunlight again!_ The thought pounded in her mind and seemed to fill her whole body. If she could just see the sky again…

She felt as if she were running on sky, the ground tipping upside down beneath her. She saw trees below her, and felt something warm touch her face. She caught her breath and looked up.

Blue sky stretched above her, and fresh air filled her lungs. She looked behind her and saw a field. In front of her, the trees stretched away into darkness…

She thought she saw a shadow move behind her, and whirled around. The motion sent her head spinning, and her knees went weak. The shadows of the trees reached out to her with long arms, their fingers grasping, tugging at her skirt.

And she knew no more.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note:**_ _Well, you're not going to get the next chapter until next year, so I hope you enjoy this one! LOL_

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Ara dreamed dark dreams.

The silhouettes of orcs and trees and strange creatures floated through her memory, carried on a wave of dizziness and confusion. Over and over, she heard a giant roar, filling the plains with its echo, and seeping into the darkness of the wood, rolling closer, closer…she saw the trees reaching out to her with their long arms, ready to engulf her and swallower her, carrying confusion and death in their wake. She saw her father, sitting alone by the fire, his head in his hands. Was he crying? Scenes of her life flashed through her memory in a whirl…she saw her mother bending over her cradle, and heard, for a flash of a second, her voice, singing a gentle lullaby…

She felt herself being lifted from the ground, and the voice faded to a deep voice, speaking words she didn't recognize. She saw again her father, and he was younger now. He bent beside a tree, and wept.

The tree where he had buried her mother.

And it seemed, for a moment, that two graves rested there.

The sunlight struck her full in the face and she winced at its brightness. Her arm throbbed, and it seemed for a moment that her whole body was her arm, carried away on a wave of sharp pain. She was floating in the darkness, aware only of her wound and the fog that crept with long tendrils into the corners of her mind. She heard again the voice, speaking as if from far away, calling her name across oceans and forests.

And then it was all gone, and she lay on a bed of straw, a strange bed.

She groaned and rolled over. The sun struck her full in the face and she opened her eyes with a gasp. Her vision cleared and she saw above her a ceiling, made of rough-hewn beams of wood. She shook her head and blinked. Was she dreaming still? Surely she should still be…no, she should still be at home. Where was she? She edged herself into a sitting position and look around. The room was simply furnished, with a great wooden desk at one end and her bed at the other. It was small, but comfortable.

She slid her feet over the edge of the bed and felt a bit dizzy. She steadied herself and sat there for a moment, allowing it to pass. She looked down at her arm and saw that it was wrapped in a fresh, clean bandage, with barely a drop of blood seeping through. She wrinkled her brow. Where was she? And why was she here?

She stood slowly and took a few steps toward the door. Her knees went weak, and she steadied herself on the wall, and took a few more steps. She inched the door open and peeked out.

She saw a large garden, shaded by trees and filled with flowers of every kind, and the buzzing of bees was in her ear.

Her eyes wide, she stepped out. The garden was empty for as far as she could see, except for the bees—and very large bees they were—and a few small animals, scurrying around as if they owned the place. A thousand strange ideas flitted through her mind.

She approached a little rabbit and held out her hand. It hopped up to her and sniffed it, its ears twitching. She smiled slightly.

"Hello," she said softly. "Hello there, little fellow. You're awfully friendly, aren't you? Can you tell me where I am?" The rabbit tilted its ears forward and made a soft little noise.

She dropped to her knees, giggling, and petted its soft fur.

"So I see my charge is awake." She started and caught her breath, her hand still resting on the rabbit's head. She knew that voice.

It was the voice she had heard in her dreams.

She turned slowly to see a great figure looming over her, its arms crossed. It has a bushy beard and the most uniquely-shaped face she had ever seen.

She would know that face anywhere.

"Sir!" she cried, jumping to her feet. "Mr.—Bear? Skin-changer?"

"So you know me," he rumbled. "I am indeed Beorn, the only skin-changer in these parts, and these are my gardens. And who may you be?"

"I should think you'd know something of me, considering you've been taking care of me for—well." She cut herself off. "How long have I been here?"

"Five days."

"Five days," she repeated, as if to herself. "My father will be—what happened? How did you find me?"

"Sit down." He spoke in the tone of an order, but there was a hint of softness in his voice. "You are pale."

"I—" Well, she couldn't argue with that. So she sat, her back against a thick bush, and let her eyes wander around the giant, shady garden as he spoke.

"I saw you flee from the wood, stumbling as if you were wounded. I saw you turn as if confused, and fall. When I reached you, you were no longer conscious." He paused. "The orc poison had taken over your mind, and was coursing through your blood like fire."

"So I did reach the edge." She twirled a leafy branch in her fingers as she cast her memory back over the last few days—images of swirling lights and dark dreams filled her mind. "I didn't know." She carefully got to her feet. "Well, I suppose I should be getting back now. My father will be worried." She turned to him and met his eyes. "I give you sincere thanks, Mr. Beorn. For I truly believe you saved my life."

He set a giant hand on her shoulder, stopping her, and placed his other hand across her forehead. His fingers, through rough and work-worn, were warm as they rested there. "You are not yet healed," he said. "I still feel fever in you. Any long journey will merely put you in danger."

"Oh, it's not a long journey—only to the wood," she said quickly. "I could get there in less than a day."

He looked away, and his eyes swept the plains, unseeing. "The wood," he said softly, as if to himself. "No," he said, turning back to her. "Stay. Stay until your strength returns."

"Well…" She glanced at the bandage on her arm, and realized that she still felt a dull ache that radiated from the wound. Her legs felt weak as she stood there, and she rested a hand on the bush, rather hoping he wouldn't notice. She couldn't very well care for her father like this, could she?

And though she would never admit it, the very thought of going back into those dark, confused woods with even a hint of orc poison still in her body made her knees go weak.

"I'll stay," she said. "But only for a few days."

"Very well." He turned, and she followed after him as he made his way through the garden, nearly running to keep up with his long strides.

"Is there any way I can help, Mr. Beorn?" she said between breaths. "I don't want to be a burden."

"A few days will not burden me more than I can handle." He continued on his way and she huffed after him. "Rest."

"Hm." She shook her head and fell behind a bit, catching her breath. Then she started after him, her face upturned, trying to catch his eyes as he walked away from her. "Are you certain?"

He stopped, and turned back to her. "If you must help," he said, "you may feed my ponies." He lifted a finger and pointed. "Their stall is on the west side of my house. You will find the feed bin easily."

She grinned. "Thank you, Beorn—Mr. Beorn!" she cried, and darted off across the garden. She felt herself sway, and stopped, steadying herself on huge, old tree trunk. Walking a bit slower now, she gazed about her with all the wonder of the day she had first seen the skin-changer.

The ponies were kept on the side of the house, their stalls blending in the living quarters as naturally as if they lived there themselves. With a little smile, she approached the first one, a little black and white mare, and stroked its nose, murmuring little soft noises.

A stick cracked behind her and she started and turned to see the bear-man standing behind her, his arms crossed, watching her solemnly. She just stood there for a moment, her hand still resting on the pony's nose, her eyes wide and her lips parted slightly.

"S—sir," she managed finally. "You startled me. I'm sorry."

"There is no need to fear," he said. His shadow fell across the room and for a moment, she thought she saw the form of a bear in its silhouette. "You will find nothing more dangerous than me in this house."

"Oh." She dropped her hand to her side and arched an eyebrow at him. "And how dangerous are you?"

"Only as dangerous as I need to be." He turned to leave.

"Oh." She blinked, and watched as he took a few steps in the direction of the door. "And how dangerous is that?"

He turned back, and she thought she saw a hint of annoyance cross his face. Or was it amusement? She couldn't tell.

"I must protect this house and the lands that surround it from the forces of evil." Again, he turned to leave. "I must be going."

"Where are you going?" The words came out before she could stop them. He turned again, his arms still crossed.

"I am going to meet a farmer in these parts. We have a trade arrangement."

"Oh!" She wrinkled her brow. "So—people know you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Did you think I was a hermit?"

"I suppose I did, yes."

"I am far from a hermit. The men in these parts hold me up as their leader in times of trouble."

"You're—a leader?" She could hardly keep the excitement from her voice. "You're a chieftain among men?"

"I am," he replied simply.

"Oh! How—" She stopped herself just before saying _romantic._ "How wonderful!"

"I suppose." He turned again, and then he was gone, the door closing without a sound behind him. She leaned against the stall and stared after him. Not only a skin-changer but a chieftain! Oh, if only she had known _this_ when she was younger! She patted the pony absently on the nose and a little smile crept up the corners of her lips.

Her younger self would have been very pleased.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's Note #1:**_ _To answer one reviewer's question, yes, Ara's father was sort of a hermit. At one time there was a little community in the wood, but they all dwindled and died off until it was just Ara and her father, and he didn't want to leave because her mother's grave was there. So they hadn't had much communication with the 'outside world' in a while._

 _ **Author's Note #2:**_ _To answer another reviewer's question, I don't know the exact year or anything, but it takes place sometime in between The Hobbit and LOTR, probably closer to LOTR in time than The Hobbit. I imagine Beorn ages pretty slowly, given that he seems to have been around for a while before The Hobbit, and is obviously still alive and well at the time of LOTR. So yeah, there's a pretty big age difference between them, but Ara's fairly mature (for the most part lol) and he'd probably be the human equivalent of a younger middle-aged man. So I think it works._

 _ **Author's Note #3:**_ _Happy new year everyone! And sorry for all the author's notes you had to slog through. ;D_

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

A faraway roar rent the night air. Ara propped herself up on her elbows and looked around her. The room was dark, lit only by the light of the full moon that filtered through the windows. She slid her feet off the bed and walked softly to the window, her footsteps echoing in the nighttime silence.

The gardens were silver, bathed in moonlight, and far away, beyond the gates, stretched a grey field. The shapes of mountains rose in the distance, misty and ghostlike.

A shadow moved, just beyond the garden. She turned, her cheek pressed up against the window. Silhouetted by the silver light, the shape of a bear stalked across the plains as if on the hunt. It moved from her view, and she caught her breath and pulled herself up higher, her eyes searching the field.

The cold of the night seeped in through the window, and her legs shook from standing so long on her tiptoes. She dropped down and fell against the wall, the room spinning around her. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her temples as she felt her body go weak.

She took a deep breath and pulled herself up, focusing on the sharp outline of her bed. After a moment, she stood away from the wall, steadied herself, and tiptoed to the door, pushing it open without a sound and stepping out into the moonlit gardens.

She ran through the trees, the moon casting her shadow behind her. She stopped at the gate and peered through its great bars. Across the flat plains, she could see for miles. The shadow of the forest loomed large, dark and ominous in the night.

She had never been on the outside at night.

She tore her gaze from the dark trees and scanned the plains. Stillness reigned. Not a shadow, not a shape touched the still grasses. She didn't know how long she stood there at the gate, her hands pressed against the cold wood, and night chill seeping through her dress.

Finally, she turned with a sigh, and moved back through the shadowy gardens.

* * *

Early morning sunlight glittered through the windows. Ara moved softly about the kitchen, opening cabinets here, peering into drawers there. She tightened the bandage on her arm and smiled slightly. The dull ache had faded, and the only evidence of her wound was a swiftly fading scab and the occasional fit of dizziness.

This morning, she wouldn't just sit and wait to be served.

She pulled a large, sturdy wooden bowl from a cabinet and set it on the counter with a thump. Herbs and vegetables hung drying from beams and doors, and the gardens were filled with fruits and flowers. A fire, lit by her, burned in the oven, and there were whole cabinets devoted to spices.

And so she gathered her ingredients, and spread them about the counter as she made breakfast. Aided by years of cooking for her father, she put together a meal fit for a chieftain, she thought with a smirk.

She was sitting at the table when he entered, two bowls of food in from of her, the counter still a bit of a mess, and a dab of flour on her nose. She grinned up at him.

"I made breakfast," she said.

He just stood there for a moment, his arms crossed. "You were here to recover," he said.

"I am recovered—recovered enough to cook a meal, thank you."

"Well." He pulled out a chair and settled himself at the table. "Thank you, Ara."

It was the first time she had heard him say her name. She blinked, and felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. "You—you're welcome?" she stammered. "I—well." The sound of her name coming from his lips ran over and over in her mind. She clenched her fists under the table and rebuked herself for being so silly. What did it matter? Her name was her name.

And besides, it wasn't as if—she cut the thought off before it started. He wasn't even entirely human—was he? Did the form of the man who sat beside her contain the spirit of a beast inside?

"I saw you last night," she ventured. "As a bear."

He acknowledged her with a tilt of his head and continued eating.

"Do you do that every night? Change your form?"

He made no response.

"I meant to say, can you just…do it? Could you turn into a bear right now, in this kitchen, if you wanted to?"

"I could."

She looked at her food. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to hope you don't want to," she said with a little laugh.

"Because you think I would turn on you." His voice was low, and he avoided her gaze.

"I don't know what I thought...how am I to know?" She shrugged. "I've never met such a beast in person before."

His eyes flashed to hers, and something dark flickered in them. "I am no beast," he said.

"Not now." She regretted the words as soon as they came out, but drove forward with determination. "But last night…"

He swallowed the last bite of his breakfast and stood, setting his bowl down with more force than necessary. "I do not change my nature when I change my form." His voice was low, and she thought she heard a bear-like growl beneath it. "I am the same, man and bear. I am Beorn, and I am a skin-changer." He strode to the door and disappeared into the next room without another word.

She rested her chin in her hands and watched him leave. Something in her wanted to call after him, to take back her rash words of a moment before.

She shook her head and stood. There were many mysteries about this man that she might never discover.

* * *

Ara lugged a bucket of water from the well, leaving a trail of drops behind her as it bounced against her leg. That bush had looked a bit dry this morning, as had that one. A little white mouse scurried past her foot as she turned the bucket upside down, accidentally dousing the poor creature. The water filtered down through the wilting leaves of the rose bush, and dripped to the ground beneath. She dropped to her knees and rubbed the mouse's head with her skirt as it shook water off its whiskers with an annoyed grunt.

A shadow loomed over her, and she jumped to her feet. "Sir!" she cried.

He crossed his arms. "And now you're watering my plants for me, as if I was incapable of doing it myself."

"I'm sorry, sir!" She too crossed her arms, and met his gaze. "I thought they looked dry."

He stared at her for a moment, his face a hard mask, his eyes unreadable. The air crackled between them.

He dropped his arms to his waist, and his face softened.

"Thank you," he said, and then he was gone, across the garden and into the house.

She just stood there for a moment, staring after his retreating form. Then she leaned down, picked up the bucket, and stepped to the next plant.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's Note:**_ _Gaaaah, sorry! Yesterday was super busy and I totally forgot to post! Also, happy Tolkien's Birthday two days late! :D_

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Ara slipped through the half-light of the stables, the sunrise just peeking into through the windows. But for her footsteps, the house was silent, and still. She softly approached the little black-and-white mare in the first stall, and rubbed its nose, murmuring soft little nothings as its ears tilted forward.

She slipped the lock from the cage and swung the door open. A slight creak echoed through the house and she started and stood still, her hand resting on the wooden gate.

Stillness fell again, and she carefully reached for the bridle hanging from the wall, and patted the pony on the nose again.

"It's alright," she murmured. "I've ridden before."

 _When I was ten years old._

She shook her head and sighed. It wasn't as if she were doing anything wrong—just going for a short ride in the cool morning air. She led the pony out into the gardens and through the back gate, the grasses waving in a gentle breeze, and the trees touched with red light.

Before she could stop herself, she was on the pony's back, laughing as it took off through the grass with a kick of her heel.

"Ah!" she cried. "You've been ridden before, haven't you?"

The morning air flowed past her, and the sunrise was in her eyes as she rode. The pony slowed, and bent its head to pull some grass from the ground. She leaned forward and rested her head on its neck, watching as the red sky turned to orange, and the orange to yellow. They moved slowly forward, and the grasses swished beneath them.

She tensed and sat up.

Something was watching.

She slid from the pony's back and held its reigns as she scanned the field around her. Nothing moved but the wind.

Still, the eerie sense that a pair of eyes stared at her from somewhere nearby wouldn't leave. Her hand went to her dagger and she dropped the reigns, taking a few silent, cautious steps forward.

A streak leapt from the tall grass with a hiss. She stumbled backward, and her knife flew through the air with a flick of her wrist. The creature fell to the ground, gasping and choking.

The knife had lodged itself in the throat of an orc.

She closed her eyes, steadied herself, and reached for the knife. The orc snapped at her with its twisted teeth, and its head lolled backward, its eyes rolling back into its head. She felt a shudder run through her as she extracted the knife, streaked with black blood, from the throat of the orc she had murdered. She stepped back and felt her stomach churning.

Her foot caught something in the grass, and she fell backward with a little shriek. She whirled around, clutching her knife, and looked straight into the eyes of another orc, towering over her, its bare chest muscled and its large hands grasping a twisted sword.

She clenched her fingers around the handle. "I killed your companion." She took a deep breath and forced her voice into an even, calm monotone. "And I can do the same to you."

The sword crashed down and she ducked, rolling backward and onto her feet again, tossing the knife from one hand to the other. The orc limped forward, one leg dragging.

"You're wounded." Her voice shook, and she took a deep breath. "That—should make things easier."

She drew back for a throw, and the orc lunged forward. Its knee buckled beneath it. She leaped forward and drove the knife into its heart, landing a solid kick to its leg as it fell. Her breath coming in short gasps, she stood over the huge body, and twisted the knife deeper, turning away as black blood seeped from the wound.

The orc gasped, twitched, and lay still. She wrenched the knife from the fallen body, and whirled around just as the other orc pulled itself from the ground and made a clumsy leap at her.

The knife twirled through the air and landed in its chest, and it fell without a sound, dead in an instant. Her legs went weak and she fell to her knees, her head spinning and her stomach threatening to eject its contents across the dead orc in front of her.

A roar split the air, and large form galloped over the crest of a hill, silhouetted by the morning light. It streaked forward and skidded to a stop in front of her, crouching, growling low in its throat. Its eyes moved between the two dead orcs, and finally rested on Ara, collapsed in the grass.

And his eyes met hers, and she knew them.

She rose shakily to her feet, her hand outreached. "Hello." She touched his snout, and ran her hand up his head, cautiously at first, then gaining confidence. "Hello, s—Beorn."

It was all she could say before she collapsed again, her whole body shaking.

She felt the touch of soft skin on her forehead, and looked up to see his great head level with her face, his nose just touching her. She met his eyes again, and they were dark and deep, filled with memory and sadness.

And she knew, in that moment, that what he said was true.

He was no beast.

She rose again and walked beside him as he padded along through the field toward his house. "I—I'm sorry about your pony, sir—Beorn," she ventured. "I believe I lost him."

He jerked his head backward, and something that was almost a smile curled around his bearish lips. She stared, fearing she had misunderstood. "You mean…?"

His big head moved up and down, and he lifted a paw and gestured.

In a moment, she was on his back, and he was off with a bound across the plains, her hands buried in his stiff fur. The wind whipped through her hair and their shadows glimmered behind them in the grass. The morning sun shone in her eyes, and she leaned back and laughed in its face. For one glorious moment, everything was forgotten, and she was alone in the world with the bear on whose back she rode with such exhilarating speed.

After what seemed only a moment, they arrived at the gate. She slipped from his back, and they walked together into the gardens, her hand resting on his neck. He slipped away among the trees, and she leaned against the gate, her cheeks glowing, her hair windblown, and her dress smelling of bear.

He emerged from the trees, now in the form of a man. She grinned up at him. "That…was wonderful," she said, and little giggles slipped through her voice.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement and stepped forward, leaning against the gate beside her. "Let me see your wound," he said.

She held out her arm, and he unwrapped the bandage with surprising gentleness for one so rough. His fingers brushed her arm, and they were warm in the morning sun. He ran his large hands over the wound that was swiftly becoming a scar, then placed a hand on her forehead, lingering there a moment longer than necessary. He drew back and rested his hand on the gate, staring over the plains, and his eyes were dark.

She looked up at him, and tried to catch his gaze, but though her eyes met his, he didn't seem to see her. "So…?" Her voice was loud in the dappled morning sunlight of the garden. "Am I healed?"

"You are a brave warrior." His voice was rough yet soft, and the wild admiration of a bear glimmered beneath it. She stared up at him.

"What?"

"You are a brave warrior," he repeated, and there was feeling hiding beneath his words. The dead orc spread out before her vision, bloody and twisted, and she shivered, suddenly cold.

"I'm no warrior," she said, softly, struggling to keep her voice in line. She slumped forward against the gate and stared out over the plains. "How do you do it?" The words trembled and barely made their way out. "I suppose one—grows accustomed to that sort of thing. After many, many long years." She sighed. "I never could."

"I do not take pleasure in slaughter." A harsh, cold wind blew through his words. "I protect my lands, and drive out the vermin that haunt them. I do not kill for sport, and I despise those who do."

"Every night." She spoke more to herself than to him. "Every night, you see dead orcs laid out around you, killed by your own claws." She met his eyes and tried without much success to keep the tears from her voice. "How are you still human?"

"I do not slaughter every beast I see, for even one such as I grows tired of such things." He raised a hand as if to wipe a tear from her cheek, then lowered it. "Some I drive beyond my borders. Some I drive into the wood, to die whatever death they choose. I am no murderer, Ara."

She drew back. "Into the wood?" The image of the wounded orc fleeing into the shadow of the trees flashed through her mind. "People live there. In the wood."

"I am aware."

"And you still drive dangerous beasts past its borders? That forest is dangerous enough without such troubles."

"That forest is good for nothing but to be the grave of vermin, a wasteland haunted by the shadows of sorcery! The men who live there have made their choice, and it is not my responsibility to protect them from it."

She pulled herself up straight. "Is that how you see me, then?" Angry tears and bitter amazement mingled in her voice as she spoke. "Vermin? Nothing but the victim of a misguided choice?"

"So you live in the wood." He crossed his arms. "I thought as much."

"It is my _home_!" Her cheeks felt hot, and she stood straight as a house beam, her fists clenched of their own accord. "My father and my father's fathers have carved out a home in that wood, and we will never bow, we will never concede that it is not a worthy one!" The words spilled out, tumbling over each other in their haste. "Have you never had a home? Would you not fight to defend its honor against the deadliest of enemies?"

Something flickered deep in his eyes, and he pressed his lips together, his dark gaze resting on her. His shadow grew long, engulfing her and surrounding her with its simmering rage. He pulled back, and he was Beorn again, smaller than she had ever seen him, the trees of the garden looming over him.

Without a word, he walked past her and swung open the gate. And then he was gone, and it seemed the waving grasses swallowed him.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author's Note:**_ _I guess the good thing about me posting a day late is that you get two updates in a row, lol. :D_

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

It had been years since he had entered the wood.

Through the shadows of the garden, the tall figure of the skin-changer moved, his mind crowded with unwelcome memories and barely-identified feelings. Once, long ago, he had ventured past the borders of the forest and stepped into a realm swirling with dark enchantment and confusion, and reeking of the orcs he so hated. It was then that he had decided. That place was good for nothing but the grave of the beasts he didn't deign to kill. It was not for him or any sane man, and he would never enter it again.

He growled low in his throat. Tonight was a night to hunt orcs—tonight was a night to fight the swiftly-rising darkness. Tonight was a night to not think—just fight. Fight, and forget. The last beams of the setting sun pierced the trees as he approached the gate, and he stopped while still in the shadows.

For just outside the gate stood the woman called Ara.

The woman who had arrived at his house with the agonies of darkness coursing through her body, the woman whose bed had had spent many nights by, watching as her face wavered between life and death. The woman who had giggled at his rabbit and stooped to dry the head of a mouse. The woman who had looked him in the eyes and defended her home with no fear of his wrath.

The woman dared to return to that dark forest simply because she couldn't bear the thought of her father worrying.

She stood unmoving in the field, her auburn hair red in the sunset and her dress caught in the evening breeze. He stood there, hidden in the twilight, his arms crossed and his face hard.

She believed him selfish. Selfish and unfeeling.

He clenched his fists and turned as the sun dipped its face below the horizon. She was young. She was yet immature. She could have no knowledge of the hardships he had experienced, of his deep and desperate desire to protect those lands he called his.

And yet…

And yet he had known. He had known that men lived in that would—men, not only elves. But somehow, he had never really _known._ And he had never really thought.

With a growl, he turned, and slipped back through the garden, into the shadows of his house.

* * *

The shadows deepened over the fields as Ara moved through the swishing grasses, casting one last, long look over her shoulder at the house that had been her home for a week. Not a shadow moved, neither man nor bear.

She sighed. It wasn't as if she wished to say farewell.

The moon peeked above the horizon and shed its silver light over the fields as she walked. The house grew smaller behind her, until it was nothing but a shadow in the night. Clouds moved over the stars above her, and a cold wind whispered across the plains, piercing her dress and ruffling her hair.

She shivered, and wished she had brought a cloak.

She never knew how long she walked, the cold, the dark, and the whispering grasses lulling her into a sort of waking dream, the wood always in front of her, never growing closer. Her steps seemed to take themselves, and she began slowly to wonder what death by freezing felt like. The thought grew in her mind and seemed to take over her body, until she didn't know whether her fingers froze of whether she imagined it.

Her foot caught on a rabbit hole, and she tumbled to the ground with a little cry. She looked up to see the shadow of the forest looming large above her, the trees reaching out like arms and the eyes of many creatures glowing among them, as if the trees were themselves alive, and watching her.

She slowly got to her feet. She had only ever entered the wood when the bright sun shone to reassure her that no real danger hid within those branches.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to take a step forward, into the shadow of the trees. Her eyes adjusted, and she could see the shapes of many trunks ahead of her, and that familiar path she had walked so many times.

And then she was running, waking all the forest with her clamor. Her feet barely touched the ground as she flew down the path she knew so well. "Father!" she cried, rushing into the small clearing. "Father, I'm home!" She threw open the door to the cottage and fell inside.

The room lay in disarray. Her father's chair lay on its side as if thrown there by some great force, and ink was spilled across his writing desk. The fire was cold, and nothing but ashes covered the hearth.

"Father?" she called again, her voice tremulous, a deep, horrible foreboding rising in her chest.

Only the echoes of her voice answered her.

She dashed through the living room, knocking over her chair and scattering ashes across the floor as she went. She wrenched open the door to his bedroom and scanned the room in one quick glance, gasping.

His bedcover was tangled and his pillows thrown on the floor. His boots and cape were missing, as was the sword that had hung so long untouched on his wall. She stumbled back out into the living room and threw open the door to her room, which lay as dark and untouched as the day she had left it.

"Father!" she called, and her voice had a note of mad terror. She crashed into the desk and sank to her knees, sobs threatening to burst from her throat. "Father, where have you gone?"

A sheet of paper caught her eye, and she reached for it. Handwriting was scrawled across it, and ink splatters splashed across it.

It was her father's hand, she knew. But his writing was usually so neat.

 _Ara,_ it read. _Have gone to search for you in the wood. When will you return? I cannot live not knowing if you are alive or dead. Please come back to me, my little forest maiden. I need you._

Here the writing trailed off in a shaky line, and the ink was smudged as if someone had laid their hand on it—or their head. Drops stained the paper—tears?

She threw the paper down and it floated to the floor as she rushed out into the wood. "Father!" she screamed, and the darkness swallowed her voice. She flew into the trees, crashing through underbrush, branches slapping her in the face and arms.

A horrible thought struck her, and she skidded to a stop. Surely he had gone mad! He knew she was gathering herbs. He knew she was on the edge of the wood. Why did he search for her here, in the heart of the forest?

And what if he had?

What if he had gone mad? What if the horrible uncertainty had seeped into his mind, and he had struck out one day in the most dangerous direction, determined to find her or die…

She pressed her hands against her temples and leaned up against a tree, forcing her thoughts into an orderly pattern. If her father had indeed gone mad, it would not do for her to follow him. Carefully tracing her path back to the cottage, she examined the ground around the door. If he had dashed out into the wood in a fit of madness, he would have left some traceable path…

Sure enough, there was a footprint, and another. A whole trail of deep, smeared footprints, leading away from the door. Her eyes on the ground, she followed it, faster and faster. A broken bush here, a sword-slashed branch there, and always, the footprints, for someone had crashed through the wood, running fast and hard.

And if the trail was this easily traceable, that meant that he couldn't have been out there long.

The trees and vines grew thicker and more twisted, but always they were slashed as if a sword had cut them. Where could her father have gone? Had he willingly thrown himself into the most dangerous part of the forest?

Her foot caught on a log and she stumbled, and fell. She rolled, and groped in front of her in the half-light. Her fingers touched cloth, and cold metal.

And she realized, with a horrible sinking feeling, that it was no long she had tripped over.

She cried out in horror. A body lay stretched facedown in the path, one hand gripping a dead torch, the other a sword. Her father's sword.

With all her strength, she grabbed the body and rolled it over, revealing her father's blood and dirt stained face.

"Father!" she cried, shaking the body as hard as she could. "Father, wake up!" She placed a shaking hand on his wrist and brought her face close to his, but felt neither pulse nor breath.

How long had he lain here?

She put a hand on his forehead, and then his cheek. His skin was cold, and empty eyes stared toward the sky.

No.

 _No._

She collapsed onto his prone form, her hair flowing over his face and her dress covering his dirt-stained clothes. "Father," she whispered, but knew before she said it that he wouldn't answer—he would never answer.

She dropped her face to his chest. How many times had she laid like this as a little girl, curled up against him as he told her stories of her mother? "Father, please." Tears slipped down her cheeks and pooled on his tunic, making paths and troughs in the dirt. "You could have lived so long. We could have…" Harsh sobs broke through her words, and she wrapped her arms around him, her head buried in his chest.

Had she ever said goodbye? Or had she just skipped out without a word, never once dreaming what the future could hold?

Raising her face to his, she closed his eyelids and clumsily wiped the dirt from his face. And she pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, just as she had as a little girl.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note:**_ _Warning: the following is a fairly short, fairly angsty chapter. This has been a warning._

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

Ara buried her father by the great tree at his wife's side, and the vines curled over his grave.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months. Her days fell into a dull routine—gathering herbs, cooking herself meals when she bothered, and tending to the wound on her arm, which never seemed to quite heal. The traces of orc poison that still coursed through her blood flared to life from time to time, and she wavered in and out of a fever, her days a fog of darkness, memory, and grief.

Too often, the fire in the hearth grew cold, and she sat in darkness, staring dully as the flickering coals cast their shadows about the room. The ghosts of memory floated about the house, calling to her in her sleep and hiding in the dancing shadows and the dusty, untouched room of her father. The blankets still lay tangled, the pillows thrown on the floor, and the door unopened, as dust gathered on the doorknob.

If she had not stayed one, two more days, could she have saved him? Would she have returned to find him safe but worried?

The questions haunted her, turning themselves over in her mind in the silence, growing as big as the loneliness. There was no one for her now, no company but the ghostly remains of ruined houses and the creatures of the wood, ever watchful, always invisible. And two swiftly-disappearing graves beneath a great tree.

And the shadows of the wood crept into her mind, and made her hear her father's voice.

She would jump to her feet and run to the door, her soul full of hope and joy at the return of the father she hadn't seen in so long. And she would slump against the doorframe as the cold silence struck her, and the memories flooded back like a roll of thunder.

She was alone now.

And where could she go?

Into the world of men? Would they accept her, a wild forest girl with no family?

Back to Beorn? No.

Never.

For to return would be to concede, to admit that that her home was unworthy, that the place that she had buried her father was no more than a dumping ground for evil beasts.

And besides, he would never take her back. Not after the way she had spoken to him that last day, not after she had lost one of his ponies, not after she had called him a beast.

And so she continued on, living a life that was scarcely more than an existence. Winter came, and its cold settled into the cottage like an unwelcome visitor. Even when the fire burned, she shivered. And what was the good of sitting beside a perfectly good fire, shivering like a beaten dog?

She slipped her cloak on and stepped out the door, moving through the wood like a shadow among the shadows. Though there was no one there to see her, she still wore mourning clothes, and a black ribbon tied her hair back. The hood of her cloak pulled over her face, she fought against the cold and the watching eyes, her feet directing themselves against her will to the edge of the forest.

She stepped out of the shadow of the trees, and the sun struck her face. She found herself smiling, just a little, and she pulled the hood of her cloak back and looked up at the blue sky. For a moment, she was a little girl, running through the field with her shoes off.

But only for a moment.

The cold winter wind caught at her black dress, and she shivered and pulled her cloak tighter about her, staring over the fields with an odd sort of longing in her heart that she dared not identify.

What was she waiting for?

She sighed, and slipped back into the wood like a ghost, passing her small cottage, scarcely more than a ghost itself now, the wood already beginning its slow ascent up its sides. She kneeled beside her father's grave, pushing the vines aside to reveal the clumsily carved gravestone that stood at his head.

And her hair fell over the vines, her black dress disheveled as she wept.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Author's Note:**_ _Alright, final chapter! I hope you all have enjoyed my little story!_

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

Through the early-morning darkness of the cottage, a young woman moved.

Her dress was no longer black, and her hair fell about her shoulders, untied by a black ribbon for the first time in months. A beam of tentative sunlight fell through the trees and into the window of the small house, shining its golden light on the dusty doorknob of her father's room.

But it was not to be dusty for much longer.

For a moment later, her hand closed around it, and she opened the door.

A thin layer of dust covered the room, and swirled into the air as she stepped inside. The blankets still lay tangled as they had all those months ago, the pillows thrown sloppily on the floor. Wrinkles creased his clothes, for they had laid long there, crumpled on the floor.

She stepped forward heavily and picked up a cloak, smoothing the wrinkles with gentle longing. Her hands moved slowly, as if the wrinkles were memories, and she erased them with a touch. She drew back with something like a shiver. She had seen her father wear these things. These were the clothes of a dead man.

Moving slowly amongst the clutter, she stirred up clouds of dust as she walked. With hesitation and an odd sort of fear, she smoothed the blankets on the bed, and replaced the pillows. Why had her father thrown them in such disarray? Had the last hand that touched these been the hand of a madman?

Well, she had touched them now. And her hands were not that of a madman.

With that thought lingering in her mind, she turned again to the door, and was interrupted by a knock sounding from the outside.

She stared, and leaned against the wall, pressing her fingers to her temples. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she was mad.

The knock sounded again, and a wild, unnamed hope rose in her heart. She rushed to the door and flung it open with a cry of joy as a tall figure ducked into the house.

"Sir!" she cried. "Sir, are you—" Her voice was suddenly soft, and she touched his hand, just for a moment. "Are you a dream?"

He chuckled, deep in his chest. "There is no need to call me sir," he said. "Beorn will do."

"Beorn." She fingered the name on her tongue, and stared up at him, her eyes wide. "I—why have you come?"

He glanced around the cottage. "Where is your father?" he said. "I wish to speak to him."

"My father is…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked away. Her head down, and her eyes carefully guarded, she slipped past him, and out of the cottage, beckoning for him to follow with a short jerk of her head. As her feet touched the soft earth, she notice for the first time that spring had touched the wood—what small hints of spring still dared come here.

She led him to the two graves in silence, and motioned with a quick, rough motion to the gravestone, cleared of its vines only that morning. He came up beside her, and stood in silence for a moment.

"I see," he finally said. "How long?"

"Four months—" She broke off, and forced her voice into something normal. "Since the day I left you."

"And so you have lived here, all alone, for four months." He glanced at the shabby cottage, and back at the vine-covered graves, and it seemed, for a moment, that his hand strayed to hers. "You must truly love your home."

Her eyes flashed to his. "My home," she said, and her voice was guarded, held back. "And so you think of it as such now?"

"I said you were a strong warrior." He stared into the shadows of the forest, but seemed not to see them. "And now I truly see how strong you are." His eyes snapped to hers. "Yes. Your home. You have my respect, Ara. Now and forever. For a home must be defended."

"I thought you never wanted to see me again." Her voice caught in her throat, and she didn't dare meet his gaze. "I thought you…"

"All those months, I thought of you. I wondered. And finally, I searched for you." He put a big hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. "And since I cannot speak to your father, I beg leave to speak to you."

Her voice was small, timid and tremulous. "You may speak to me."

"The men under my command have advised me to take a wife."

Her heart beat loud in her ears, so loud she feared he would hear it.

"And I judged it wise to take their advice, for as the darkness rises, I am gone from my home more often than I wish to be. And so they brought their daughters before me, each hoping in their vain hope that their child could become the wife of their chief. But I found none of them worthy."

Hope and fear whirled in a wild dance through her heart, and she felt suddenly dizzy, as if she were floating, and no one in the world existed but them. He paused, and it seemed his eyes pierced her soul, and his hands sent warmth rushing through her body.

"For I could not marry a woman who was trained from birth to fear me, afraid to look me in the eye lest she rouse my wrath."

The words _I don't fear you_ rested on her tongue, but she bit them back so hard it hurt.

"I do not come to drag you from your home, and I do not ask you to concede that it is not a worthy one. I only ask that you come when you are ready, if you are willing. You would be a chieftainess, and you would be my wife. You would never have cause to fear me, nor to fear for your safety." Something like a smile formed at the corners of his lips. "For while I will protect you, I know that you can protect yourself."

"Willing!" she cried. "Oh, more than willing! Always!" And she fell forward with a little giggle, and wrapped her arms around his chest. She felt his deep chuckle turn to a laugh, and she raised her face to his, her light, springtime laugh joining his deep, autumn one.

And they stood together in the wood, the future spreading out before them like the promise of a new dawn.

* * *

 _The End._


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